Ashes to Ashes
by Doctor WTF
Summary: Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He was supposed to have had more time. An angst-filled Sherlolly


**AN: I had planned on getting the next chapter of _I am Swaplocked_ up today, but all I've been able to write these last couple of days has been angst. So here you go, the angst-y fruits of my currently angst-filled soul. Hopefully this will be enough and I can get back to the cheerful now.**

**Enjoy!**

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_We commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father_

Sherlock Holmes was not a stupid man.

_The soul of this, our sister departed_

He'd understood what she had always wanted from him. Understood it and ignored it until the optimum time. He'd shelved the idea in some rarely visited corner of his mind palace and dusted it off once a year when he reviewed his long-term goals. Every year he considered it and every year he put the idea back on the shelf making a mental note to revisit the issue next year.

After all, he still had plenty of time.

_And we commit her body to the ground_

There were always more important things to be done. Cases to solve, criminals to catch, and concertos to write. He'd understood the importance of it all – after all, there was no hope that his brother would ever pass on the Holmes name and he did possess a certain amount of family pride – but he'd always told himself that waiting another year wouldn't hurt.

He was still young and she was still within the optimum childbearing years. Sentiment and relationships and family could wait. She could wait.

That isn't to say he didn't protect his interests. He kept enough of a steady eye on her to assure that none of her relationships progressed beyond casual dating. That she would continue to be unattached. That she would continue to be smitten with him, open and ready for when he decided it was time to make his advances.

_Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust_

She was good and brave. Nurturing and patient. All excellent qualities for motherhood and all things he had longed for as a child. With her he would never be wanting. Once he allowed her to she would learn to predict his needs, learn his ins and outs and conform herself to fit within his standards so perfectly that he would come to wonder how he had ever coped without her. During the day she would aide him in his research, cook for him, and tidy up and at night he would bury himself in her arms until she soothed away the cares of the day.

Their children would want for nothing. They'd inherit his intelligence and her kindness. They'd take on his strengths and he'd teach them not to fall for her weaknesses. And though he would be often absent she would always be there for them – and for him – picking up the pieces of forgotten birthdays, missed school events, and ignored Christmases. The children would love her, but only respect him and that was okay. That was what he wanted. She would love him enough so that it wouldn't matter.

Or at least that was what he had always hoped.

_And we beseech thine infinite goodness to give us grace to live in thy fear and love and to die in thy favour_

At his side, Mrs. Hudson was crying, big gasping sobs so hard her shoulder shook. He hadn't even known they were friends. Hadn't known until she was asking him to share a cab to the funeral, tears already in her eyes. He'd expected the crowd at the graveside to be small – he'd pictured just him and John, maybe Mike and Lestrade there as well – but he'd been wrong. Scanning the sad faces of those that had gathered he was struck by how many people there were and how few he recognized. He cataloged them all, deducing who was what. Family, co-workers, two ex-boyfriends. It was surprising how many people there had considered themselves her friends.

He'd always pictured her lonely outside of work. The type of person who went back to their empty flat to consume a glass of wine and watch the telly, but he knew now that was untrue. She never would have been able to cultivate so many friendships if she'd been as solitary as he was.

Looking down at spray of flowers that covered the casket – white roses and lilies, he would have chosen red orchids and pink lisianthus – he wondered what other things he had gotten wrong.

_That when the judgement shall come which thou hast committed to thy well-beloved Son, both this our sister and we may be found acceptable in thy sight_

He'd solved her case. It hadn't been much of a case to solve – barely a two – but he'd solved it anyway. For three days he'd allowed it to consume him. He'd collected the paint chips and traces of soil from her body without ever looking at her. When he read the autopsy report and saw that she would have lived if the car had only stopped and called for help it was like it was happening to someone else. He asked the empty room for a cup of coffee and didn't know why it troubled him so badly when it didn't appear.

Analysis done he'd texted Lestrade with the details. Told him the exact car make and model as well as where it had come from and the sex and approximate age of its driver. An hour later and Lestrade called to tell him they'd found her killer. He'd been right of course. It had been a man, late forties, balding – though he hadn't deduced that part from the evidence – who had been too drunk or too scared to stop when he'd struck the small woman coming home from the late shift. They found the car, found her blood still on the bumper, and the man had confessed instantly.

Case closed. Puzzle solved.

He'd sat in the darkened and empty lab – stared at the empty spot where a full coffee cup should have been sitting – and wondered if it would be possible for Mycroft to bring back the death penalty.

_Grant this, O merciful Father_

The analytical side of his mind told him that his plans would take no real set back from his change in circumstances. He knew other women. He'd been told multiple times that his facial features and structure were pleasing in appearance and that his intelligence and position in the world were attractive. In all of London there was sure to be another unattached woman, intelligent and kind, who would meet his standards and fulfill his needs.

His fingers clenched and he trembled. He wanted so badly to strike something, but only himself would do.

_For the sake of Jesus Christ, our only Saviour, Mediator, and Advocate_

He was supposed to have had so much more time. Years and years of it until he learned her every expression, her every laugh, her every sigh. He was supposed to come to know her as well as he knew himself and though such familiarity would be boring, he would never become bored with her.

She was supposed to be with him in perpetuity, the one who'd get cross and nag him until he admitted that his limbs weren't as limber as they once had been and grudgingly agree to retire. He'd take her to Sussex, close to the London that was in his blood, – and near enough in the event a truly spectacular case popped up though he wouldn't leave her side for less than a nine – close to the ocean she longed for, and close enough for grandchildren to come and visit. She would care for the garden and he would keep bees. He would write that book on beekeeping that he had always planned on writing and she would read it first, adding humanity and likability to his cold prose.

He was supposed to make her happy. So happy that all the unhappiness he'd ever caused her would fade away from her mind as if it was a bad dream.

The crowd started to depart but he stood there until John came to take his arm. His face was wet – he wondered when it had started raining – but for some reason his coat was still dry.

They were supposed to have had so much more time.

He wondered where all of it had gone.

_**Amen.**_


End file.
